


fumble

by circus (orphan_account)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-19
Updated: 2011-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-27 13:34:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/296399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/circus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean drops the cigarette from between slender fingers and crushes it under his boot, and Sam tries not making analogies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	fumble

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Batman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batman/gifts).



Dean takes a drag, long and full, letting the smoke furl in and down his throat, stinging slightly and making his eyes water. Sam looks out the window at him, a lone figure leaning against the Impala, yellow motel lights sputtering a little now and then.

The clock ticks inside, in time with the drops of rain falling across the windowsill, and in Sam’s mind there’s two different clocks, there’s the raindrops and the clock on the wall, and then he gets scared, he’s scaring himself thinking of how much they need time and that there’s not enough, that the blood starts pumping in his ears, and he can feel the perfectly time pulses, like his body is mocking him, and his brain registers it automatically as a third clock, as less time, as more need for desperate measures, as hurricanes and train crashes and thin ice about to break.

Dean coughs a little and Sam jolts as the other bends over, stretching and touching his toes out of boredom, and Sam can’t help but chuckle, because randomly doing stupid shit like that is _Dean_ , and then he stops chuckling, because Dean would stop doing all those beautiful Dean things that he did if he didn’t save him, if he didn’t get him out of the blackhole Dean was already waist-deep in. The motel light shut off again.

In the lights from across the road Sam makes out Dean standing back up and frowning at the motel light that blinks back on as if nothing happened. He catches Dean’s lips moving, and although he can’t hear, he’s pretty sure Dean’s calling it a sonofabitch, and he almost tears up because God he loves Dean and he needs to make Dean _stay_.

Dean drops the cigarette from between slender fingers and his boot crushes it and Sam tries not to make analogies of how Dean threw his own life away _just_ like that, for Sam’s, and he can’t help it but he _is_ making these analogies and there’s no _point_ in anything because it _happened_ and Dean’s making his way back to their door, and he needs to get back on track, needs to -

“Hey Sammy what’re you crying about?” Dean greets him, cheerfully, not realizing he’s actually kind of right.

“Uh, nothing,” Sam replies, as if Dean had interrupted a train of thought he’d been lost in, “Just found some leads.”

“Great,” Dean smiles, and reaches over to ruffle his hair, and Sam closes his eyes and all the blood rushes to his head and he feels like he needs to explode with anger and frustration and how dark and alone he’s beginning to feel already.

“Yeah,” Sam nods, mouth in a straight line as he stares mindlessly at the laptop screen crowding with black words on a white background, nothing making sense, nothing making sense, nothing making _sense_.

He stays that way for ages, chin in his hands, staring at Dean, now fast asleep, at his lashes fluttering peacefully in whatever dreams he was having, and the clock continues to tick away at his conscience, at Dean’s countdown, at their countdown, and he shoves his chair back to pull the blanket properly over Dean’s ears so they don’t get cold.

Then he walks over to his bed and lies down on the blanket, not bothering with anything, and he closes his eyes and tries to think of things without Dean, tries to think of things without him in shotgun, tries to think of going through all the bullshit without someone - without _Dean_ \- yelling throughout and calling everyone a sonofabitch, without Dean telling him every once in a while, “I’ve got your back, Sammy.”

It doesn’t work, nothing works, nothing will ever work without Dean, and he stumbles out the room, trying not to think and still somehow thinking, and great now his brain just won’t stop going through the endless things Dean does, will it?

Sick to the stomach, he’s bent over on his knees in the grass, tears leaking out, unwanted, unneeded, unheeded, falling onto his jeans, like the raindrops from before, only rain doesn’t _hurt_ , doesn’t try and stop his lungs from breathing with every drop that squeezes out.

With a shuddering breath his brain shuts down and he throws up, and he doesn’t know what’s happening or what’s going to happen, but suddenly there’s a pair of warm arms around him, dragging him back in, and the tears _keep_ going, less painful now and more of embarrassing but Dean’s here, Dean’s here, Dean hasn’t left yet, hasn’t…


End file.
